Bay of Martyrs Read online

  Clay glanced back at Anderson, who was moving from step to step with all the grace of a two-legged cow. It would be a solid minute before the beefy detective made it to the taped-off pile of seaweed. Clay pulled a small camera from his pocket – a digital point-and-shoot number – and walked back to where the greyish face poked out from the seaweed. He snapped a couple of quick shots before sliding the camera back into his pocket.

  ‘I’m gonna pretend I didn’t see that,’ said Eddie.

  ‘See what?’ said Clay, offering the cop a cheeky grin.

  Anderson was walking away from the bottom stair, negotiating the sand with only slightly more grace. He was heading straight for them.

  Nothing to it but to do it, thought Clay. He made straight for Anderson, with his grin on full beam.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Anderson, what a pleasure to see you again,’ said Clay. ‘What’s it been? Five, six years? You’re looking well. Have you lost weight?’

  A few cops trailing in Anderson’s wake suppressed smirks as they passed Clay on their way to the taped-off crime scene. Anderson’s heavy brows drooped, his face contorted into a sour scowl that Clay was already familiar with. He’d succeeded in winding up the detective, but knew he still had a job to do.

  ‘Go to hell, maggot,’ said Anderson.

  Clay turned and kept pace with the detective. ‘Is that “maggot” with two Gs?’ he said, pretending to write in his notepad.

  ‘Which part of “go to hell” didn’t make sense, Moloney? I can spell it out on your notepad if you like, ya bloody smart-arse.’

  ‘Come on, Frank. I’ve just got a couple of questions.’

  Anderson’s scowl morphed into a slick smile. ‘All questions must be directed to the police media unit,’ he said, unable to keep the hint of smarm from his voice.

  ‘Oh, give me a break. You know they’re as useless as tits on a bull.’

  ‘All questions must be directed to the police media unit.’

  Anderson kept walking and Clay stopped. He gritted his teeth. Something about the dismissive slap down from Anderson cancelled out the effects of his hangover, made him want to run down the beach after him and slug it out for the story. Someone had died here; it wasn’t the place to play games like this. For the first time in ages, something like ambition burned inside Clayton Moloney.

  But if no one was going to tell him anything, he didn’t have much of a story.

  Chapter 3

  At the break-up of the early-morning news conference, an animated hum charged the air of the meeting room and followed the trail of bodies back to desks. For a little after 9 a.m. on a Monday, this level of excitement for the day ahead unsettled Clay. It wasn’t the manufactured enthusiasm he’d come to expect from colleagues who wanted to hold onto jobs in a rapidly shrinking industry; it was more than that, more than gut-wrenching curiosity, too. Death had visited, close to home, and these people now felt lucky to be among the living.

  Clay passed around his camera; some were desensitised enough to want a look at the dead body captured in the tiny screen on the back. The photos hadn’t been published – something about upsetting the relatives and the squeamish – but most of the hacks in the office wanted a peek. The indistinct images of a corpse covered in greying and rotting flesh attracted all the remarks he’d expected, and a few he hadn’t. People were funny, but not the one in the picture: that one had nothing to laugh about. He felt strangely defensive of the unnamed body under discussion.

  ‘Nothing like a corpse to liven up a newsroom,’ said Clay.

  A few titters followed. Clay goaded them again: ‘It’s ironic the way this place usually looks at this hour.’

  ‘Says the Living Dead poster boy.’ One of the mildly aggrieved spoke up.

  ‘How is the hangover, Clay?’ said another.

  They were ganging up now.

  Clay retreated. ‘Touchy lot, aren’t you? Sorry I spoke.’

  He snatched the camera back, switched off the back screen and stomped to his desk. Clay turned over his notebook, shuffled the piles of press releases, looking for his contacts book. When he found it, lodged in the tip site of his desk’s top drawer, he scanned the dog-eared index. He located Senior Constable Eddie Boulton’s mobile number and dialled.

  The officer picked up on the third ring. ‘Hey, Clay. I don’t think I’m supposed to be talking to you.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Eddie, when has that ever stopped you before? Are you gonna let that tosser, Anderson, tell you what to do?’

  ‘Well, there’s the slight matter of the fact that he does outrank me.’

  ‘Yeah, there’s that, but he is a tosser, too.’

  Laughter. ‘There is that.’

  ‘So, tell me what you know? The body’s in Melbourne, right?’

  ‘Off the record, yeah, it’s probably on the slab as we speak.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Has it been that long since you’ve been laid, Eddie?’

  ‘Clay, the body was a wreck. Long time in the water, plus a few sharks and other assorted sea creatures had treated it like the all-you-can-eat buffet at Macey’s Hotel. We’ve got a head, most of a torso, one and a half arms, and a stump that was once a leg.’

  Clay scratched the details into his shorthand pad as the officer’s description of the body grew in his mind.

  ‘But, come on,’ said Clay. ‘If you were a betting man – which I know you are – male or female?’

  ‘I’d go with female. The hair was on the longish side. Christ, I sound like my old man saying that. Look, I dunno.’

  ‘What about marks or wounds on the body?’

  ‘Aside from the massive shark bites?’

  ‘Well, yeah…’

  ‘I got nothing, Clay.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘I dunno… youngish? Under twenty-five, I guess, but not a kid.’

  ‘So who can I talk to on the record about all this? And don’t say “Frank Anderson”.’

  Eddie’s tone trailed into exasperation. ‘Sorry, mate, but he’s your man. And he’s just gonna fob you off to police media.’

  ‘Who are a pack of useless so-and-sos.’ A pause. He reckoned there was still room to press the cop. ‘Then tell me this – how long until an autopsy report is filed?’

  ‘Months. Two at best, more likely four.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘But a preliminary one might get filed in a week or so to help speed along the investigation.’

  ‘Where does that go when it’s filed?’

  ‘Anderson will get one and he’ll pass it around the criminal investigations unit in Warrnambool. And one will probably go to the prosecutions office so they can keep up with the case for future reference.’

  ‘The Warrnambool prosecutions office?’

  ‘Probably Melbourne. But one might go to the prosecutors in Warrnambool. If you’re lucky.’

  ‘Here’s hoping. Thanks, Eddie. I owe you a beer.’

  ‘You owe me many beers, you cheap bastard.’

  Clay hung up. Bradley Tudor was heading his way, with a woman he didn’t recognise. He was pretty sure the editor couldn’t read shorthand, he probably couldn’t even read joined-up writing, but he closed over his notepad on instinct. Clay quickly lost interest in the approaching Tudor and focused on the woman. She was average height, with dark brown hair and matching, but darker, eyes. There was something quietly confident about her and the way she walked through the office in her torn Levi’s and faded T-shirt. Clay put her at early thirties, but with a self-assurance that suggested she was closer to his own age – though admittedly wearing it a lot better.

  ‘Clay, this is Bec O’Connor, the new photographer,’ said Tudor. ‘You two can get to know each other on the way out to the airport.’

  Clay and Bec exchanged a quick, and somewhat awkward ‘hi’ before both turning back to gaze at the editor.

  ‘What’s at the airport?’ said Clay.

  ‘Planes,’ said Tudor
, smirking at his pathetic idea of a joke.

  Clay’s expression remained unchanged while Bec smiled politely.

  ‘But seriously,’ continued Tudor, oblivious, ‘Wayne Swanson is landing out there shortly. You need to ask him about what’s going on with the airport redevelopment he promised in the last election and you also need to grill him about the Gold Coast deal that was all over the nationals.’

  ‘What Gold Coast deal are we talking about?’ said Clay.

  Tudor’s humour was replaced with disdain. ‘Don’t you read the papers? Or listen to the news in the morning?’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  The editor glowered; something like a riposte was clearly forming on his lips, but it seemed to slip away from him. ‘The metros are alleging some kind of backdoor deal was done between Swanson and Fullerton Industries on a new hospital on the Gold Coast. Fullerton’s got local connections, too, not to mention truckloads of the green stuff, so it could be a good yarn for us. Do your research on the drive out.’

  ‘If I must,’ muttered Clay.

  Tudor seemed to be pretending not to hear; he turned to Bec. ‘All the equipment you’ll need is over in the photography department, Bec. Go and see Damian, he’s desking the jobs today, and he’ll sort you out with a camera and all the rest of it.’

  ‘Thanks for that.’ Bec wandered off in the direction of Damian’s desk and Tudor perched over Clay like he was about to take a bite out of him.

  ‘This is a good story, Clay. Local politician, locally connected business, deals for the boys… how about a bit of enthusiasm? Or have you had enough of this caper?’

  Clay sank further into his chair. ‘Settle down. I’m just a bit out of the loop this morning, that’s all. Big day, yesterday, what with me writing the front page about a bloody body washing up at Peterborough. Or did you forget that, Tudor?’

  They were talking low and close, but Clay sensed a few heads around the office were turning in their direction.

  ‘One sunny day doesn’t make a summer. I have cadets on the payroll putting in higher word counts than you, and guess what? They do it for a lot less.’

  ‘I’m sure the quality of their copy’s spot on, too.’

  ‘Watch it, mate,’ said Tudor. ‘Word is the boys in Sydney might be swinging the axe at the regionals soon and it ain’t gonna be the enthusiastic young journos on low pay that get the sack. It’s more likely to be the cantankerous ones who do one front-page story a month, have a few warnings about their behaviour on their record, and are on good pay ’cos they’ve been here for twenty years.’

  ‘Well, if all Sydney wants is fresh-out-of-college fodder to rewrite Hungry Jack’s press releases, then I’m sure you’ll all be very happy in your Brave New World, and I, on the other hand, will gladly jog on, mate.’ Clay took a deep breath, but couldn’t take any of the bite out of his voice. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr Editor, I have a politician to interview.’

  Tudor stepped out of the way as Clay rose. A further exchange of words looked imminent, but as Bec appeared, camera case in hand, Tudor clamped his mouth shut.

  Chapter 4

  ‘That was an interesting scene.’ Bec spoke with an Irish lilt that recalled Clay’s university years and the memories of international students and backpackers.

  ‘That’s an interesting accent.’

  Bec had the wheel of the office Subaru, following Clay’s directions to the airport. ‘Is that what you call avoidance chat?’

  Clay pored over the metro papers, caught up in what he’d missed about the member for Warrnambool, Wayne Swanson, and his friends at Fullerton Industries. It seemed Swanson, in his role as federal infrastructure minister, was being accused of less than scrupulous management of a new hospital tender that Fullerton had landed. The story was patched together from leaked documents and unnamed sources, but the inference that Swanson had greased the deal was plain, and Clay could see how it all added up to trouble for the politician.

  ‘I’ll take that silence as a yes,’ said Bec.

  Clay didn’t look up from the newspaper. ‘I’m not sure what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Well, I’ve worked at a few papers here and there, and usually when an editor and a journo have an up-close-and-personal moment like that, it means bad things are going down. Or they’re about to shag in the supply room. Maybe both.’

  ‘Tudor and I don’t see eye to eye on most things.’ He closed the newspaper and folded it up before tossing it at his feet. ‘So… you’re from Ireland, hey?’

  Bec took the hint and shifted conversational gears. ‘Yes. From Dublin.’

  ‘And where are you living now?’

  ‘I’m renting a little farmhouse out the other side of Koroit. It’s pretty.’ Her face lit up at the mention of the place.

  ‘Why the hell are you living all the way out there?’

  ‘What do you mean “all the way out there”? It takes me less than twenty minutes to drive to Warrnambool.’

  ‘Yeah, but I can walk to work in five minutes. And I never have to pay for a taxi to get home after the pubs.’

  ‘Some of us don’t live our life around “the pubs”.’

  She didn’t take much to thaw out, Clay liked that about her. ‘What’s the matter? Too old to party?’

  ‘Some of us have done our fair share of that already and grew out of it.’

  ‘Some of us sound like an old person when they’re probably younger than me.’

  Bec offered a scoffing laugh in response. ‘I doubt it. I’m thirty-nine. And what are you?’

  ‘Just turned forty, actually.’ He still hadn’t adjusted to the number. It sounded too far off, like hip replacements and blending your food. ‘I could have sworn you were about thirty-four at the oldest.’

  ‘Er, thanks. But I’m not that hung up on my age.’

  An awkward silence played. Both parties seemed more comfortable with sly insults than compliments and the forty count was still a sore point for Clay. In an attempt to take the edge off the conversation he moved away from the subject. ‘You do know they have an Irish festival in Koroit every year?’

  ‘Yes. It’s part of the appeal.’

  ‘Really? You come all the way across the world from Ireland to end up in perhaps the most Irish town in Australia?’

  Bec was quiet for a moment. ‘I guess it feels like home in a way, but without actually being home.’

  ‘I see.’ For the second time in less than a minute there were uncomfortable thoughts in the air, and the silence descended again.

  It was the landscape that broke the lull. ‘Turn left here.’

  Bec flipped on the blinkers, turned the wheel.

  The Warrnambool Airport lay beyond the edges of the city, among the fertile pastures of Mailors Flat. A small red brick house and an assortment of sheds made the place look like a farm at first, especially given its location amid a landscape dominated by paddocks full of Friesian cows, happily chewing their cud.

  ‘It’s not much of an airport,’ said Bec, as she parked the Subaru.

  ‘No kidding. Some of these shacks will be worth top dollar when the airlines start landing.’

  ‘They’re really putting in that kind of development here?’ She stopped in the dry, dusty road and looked around.

  The windsock flapped forlornly in the weak westerly that had replaced yesterday’s harsh northerly, returning the region to a more pleasant and bearable version of summer. A handful of large sheds served as hangars and four runways crisscrossed each other in the shape of a hashtag. The terminal looked more like a settler’s hut than a place where passengers checked in, and the refuelling truck wouldn’t have been out of place in a Norman Rockwell painting.

  ‘Swanson made some million-dollar promise, but you know what they say about a politician’s promise,’ said Clay. ‘The clever bastard bragged he’d put Warrnambool on the map by pumping money into this place. Bring even more tourists here to go up and down the Great Ocean Road. Internationals flying in fro
m all over the place. I’ll be very surprised if anything ever comes of it.’

  A droning sound off in the distance caught their attention and Clay and Bec turned their gaze to the east, where a light plane had appeared. They watched as it circled around to the north of the airport, eventually beginning its descent.

  The first man off the plane moved slowly, the sallow skin and drawn cheeks signalling heavy fatigue. Grey hairs were migrating upwards from his temples, while his jowls were migrating downwards. Swanson seemed to have aged prematurely by at least a decade. Clay, in his age-obsessed state, congratulated himself on avoiding politics as a profession.

  Bec snapped away as Swanson walked from the plane, mopping his brow with a handkerchief, heading for the hutterminal. At the front door of the building he spotted the pair from the newspaper.

  ‘Clay, good to see you again,’ said Swanson, extending a sweaty palm and giving Clay the too-firm handshake of the overcompensating. ‘And it’s good to be back in the ’Bool.’

  ‘What can you tell me about your airport promise, Wayne?’ Clay removed his notepad, yanked a pencil from the spiral. ‘You said there’d be funding in the next budget for a major upgrade.’

  ‘I’m glad you asked me that, because we’re moving forward with the upgrade and I’ll tell you who the successful tender winner is soon… obviously following due process.’

  Swanson went into the benefits an airport upgrade was going to have for ‘the good electorate’. Clay was barely listening, half-writing the article already. When he noticed Swanson slowing he seized the chance to change tack. ‘Wayne, I want to ask about the Gold Coast hospital allegations with Fullerton Industries.’

  Swanson waved a hand as if shooing a blowfly. ‘It’s a beat-up. Due process was followed, any allegations suggesting otherwise are bloody lies.’

  ‘But you are friends with Lachlan Fullerton, aren’t you?’

  ‘I know lots of people. Lots of CEOs and business folks. And yes, I know Mr Fullerton. He’s from my home town – he’s a good Warrnambool lad – so it’d be strange if I didn’t know him, given the size of the place. But that doesn’t mean he’s been favoured in a tender process, now, does it?’